


Christmas at the Beachwood Cafe

by darling_jane_at_chawton



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: BUT HAPPY ENDING I PROMISE, Beachwood Cafe, Christmas, Fluff, Harry's POV, Los Angeles, M/M, Post-Break Up, Quick Read, present day but without corona
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:41:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28351107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darling_jane_at_chawton/pseuds/darling_jane_at_chawton
Summary: After another break-up, Harry decides to hole up in LA over the holidays to get over Louis for the last time.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 34





	Christmas at the Beachwood Cafe

DAY ONE  
DECEMBER 22nd

When the plane touched down after eight hours, Harry put his hand to the small window by his seat. Its coldness surprised him. Outside, palm trees stretched to the sky and the December sun turned the runway golden. 

No snow. No rain. Nothing to remind him of home.  
Or him.

The flight attendant appeared. “Feel free to use your phone, Mr. Styles. I hope you brought some of your British sweaters. LA’s supposed to hit record low temps. And this is for you.” She held out an envelope with his name.

Harry frowned reflexively, no one was supposed to know he was here. 

The young woman’s face fell. “I’m sorry, Mr. Styles. The owner of the plane asked that I give it to you.”

“No worries, darling,” he said quickly. 

The list of people who knew he was arriving two weeks before his next film project was short. His mum. His sister. His assistant—who found him a house in the Hollywood Hills neighborhood he insisted upon, despite Maggie’s begging him to let her find him something in Malibu or Santa Monica. And the friend who lent him the plane.

“May I get you anything else?” the flight attendant said

A boyfriend brave enough to love me publicly, Harry thought. “All good here,” he said. “Thanks, love.”

Her expression relaxed. “My pleasure, Mr. Styles. I hope you have the very best holiday.”

When she retreated, he opened the note. It was written on a thick ivory card with an “EJ” gold monogram at the top: 

"Harry, no more broken hearts, my friend. You deserve all the love in the world. You’re going to be okay. Let it hurt like hell for a bit, cry into your Christmas pudding if you must, and then show up on that set and let the work heal you. Because it will. Love from David, the kids, and me. David also said to tell you that when I kick off, he’ll be waiting for your call."

The last line had its intended effect and Harry smiled, just a little. It felt odd. He was out of practice. For the past month, he’d sunk lower than any other post-break-up. Which was ridiculous. They had done this no fewer than five times. It shouldn’t have been a surprise. And it wasn’t. Not really. 

Gemma kept telling him that it was natural to be devastated because he’d been in love with Louis since he was sixteen. His sister meant to console him but instead, her words only highlighted the fact that Harry had been in love with someone for a decade who failed to love him back properly.

A bloody decade. Louis would be thirty soon. And that had been their final fight. Louis wanted a family. Kids. Loads of them. And no matter how many times Harry reminded him that they could have them together—look at Elton, look at Ricky Martin for fuck’s sake he’d said—it was not how Louis imagined his life. And so, the return to Eleanor.

The thought of him and Elle cuddled up in front of the massive blue Christmas tree Louis always put up made Harry furious and gutted in equal measure. Harry decided spending the holidays holed up in LA was the only solution. His mum and Gemma begged him not to but he couldn’t tolerate being in the same small country as Louis right now. LA was the perfect antidote. He would write—because that was the only way he made sense of anything, learn lines for the new film, and rid himself of every single tender feeling for the asshole until there was nothing left. 

Nothing for Louis to pick over or re-kindle when, inevitably, three months from now, or six, or in a year, he sent an “I miss you” drunk text at three in the morning. 

Harry’s phone lit up with a FaceTime call from Maggie. 

“You’re alive! Landed?” she said, a pint glass in one hand and red hair piled messily on top of her head. “Did you sleep? Tell me you did.”

“I did.” He did not. But Maggie worried about him non-stop despite his telling her not to bother. She said it was what he paid her for and maybe, in a way, it was.

“Now, look, the car’s waiting for you. The biggest black hybrid they had. And I’ve found a lovely home in Pacific Palisades-- up on a cliff overlooking the Pacific. You could write on the beach every day, Harry. It’s brilliant and—don’t roll your eyes at me.” She scrunched her nose. “Fine. Suit yourself. The driver has the address for the Beachwood Canyon house. There’s a pool.”

“Thanks, Mags.” He grabbed his backpack and duffel off the seat, pulled his sunglasses out.

“Ah, I see you got your Christmas presents from Gucci?” She pointed at the luggage.

The plane’s door opened and he descended the stairs. “Got to go.” 

“Wait!” she said. “The house comes with a private chef. Hang on.” She looked down at some papers. “Her name’s Jessamyn. She’s cleared by security and signed the non-disclosure. You’ll have her every day from 8 a.m.-7 p.m.”

The cold air hit and he flipped up the collar of his pea coat. “I don’t want a chef, Maggie. I can feed myself. Christ, I’m not that far gone.”

The driver waved him over and he slid into the back seat. 

“Not that far gone, eh?” She slid her glasses down her nose like she was his grandmother instead of three years younger. “You fly thousands of miles two days before BLOODY CHRISTMAS to hole up one block away from you and his lordship’s favorite LA restaurant? God knows how many meals the two of you ate there and, I know you, Harry, you’re going to get up every morning, pretend to stroll by and then go inside and remember every---”

The SUV merged smoothly onto the freeway and Harry tuned her out. So many cars on the road. It still overwhelmed him, despite the number of times he’d been to LA. He finally learned to drive an American car two years ago. No. He would not remember how they rented a convertible and drove up Highway 1 for three days. That Louis had been the better driver, adapting to the opposite side of the road thing easily, and telling Harry all he needed to do was look pretty and bestow kisses every so often. Harry had been happy to oblige. Everything was grand until Louis lost control of the wheel during one particularly intense kiss and the car almost skidded off a cliff. 

Maggie hadn’t taken a breath yet. “--so I called Patti at the café to give her a head’s up about--”

“About what?” Tiredness stole over him and he wondered if there might ever come a time when his life did not require management and interference by other people.

She peered closer into her phone. “Are you okay? You don’t look okay. Take off your glasses.”

He flipped her the finger. 

“Oh, I see,” she said, huffing up, “we’re in an international superstar mood, are we?”

The whisper of a migraine throbbed behind Harry’s eyes. “I’ve got to go, Mags. Thanks for everything. You’re the best. Happy Christmas, darling.” He blew her a kiss.

“Don’t sweet talk me now, Harrykins. And you’re not rid of me. I’ll be calling to make sure you’re not lost at the bottom of the pool high on California pot and despair—”

Her image popped off the screen as he shut the phone. He needed to be anonymous for these two weeks. Just a boy with a broken heart trying to figure out how to survive.

It took half an hour but his driver finally pulled up outside a house hidden behind tall hedges. Harry unfolded himself out of the car before the driver had a chance to open the door. The neighborhood looked vaguely familiar and he wondered if Louis and he had explored it on one of their strolls after a Beachwood Café meal? Most of the houses sat back from the street behind landscaping or tall security fences made to look ornamental. His was protected by carved wooden doors. He turned the knob. Locked.

“Sorry, sir!” The driver hurried to Harry’s side. “Here you are. Keys.” 

“Right,” Harry said, taking them. “Thanks.”

The man lingered, keeping hold of the luggage.

“I’ve got it from here, mate,” Harry said, smiling in what he hoped was a semi-polite version of leave me the fuck alone. 

“Sure,” the driver said. “’Course you do. Hope you have a nice stay, sir.”

Harry waited until the car pulled off to open the entry gate. Before stepping through, he paused. Was it possible to leave all of his broken bits here and not drag them inside? Just empty all his pockets and turn himself inside out and shake every little crumb of Louis onto the street? 

He could walk unburdened into this strange house where the unknown next part of his life waited. It could be exciting. 

Not bloody likely.

But, maybe. At this point, the unknown was vastly more appealing than the known.

DAY TWO  
DECEMBER 23rd

Harry woke the next morning and did not know where he was. The sun blasted through the window. Large jungle-looking trees loomed outside. He ran a hand down his face. Where was he? Thailand? Vietnam? Hawaii? 

The nightstand held his phone and an impressive collection of empty beer bottles. The roar of a leaf blower shattered the morning’s quiet and offered the definitive location. LA. Of course. One of the lingering effects of the One Direction tour days was the sensation of never knowing where in the world he was. At the time, he survived by pretending not to care and distracting himself from being away from his family by goofing around with the lads. 

No. He would not start today with thoughts about his lordship. Maggie’s name for L. had grown on Harry of late. From somewhere in the house, the smell of baking bread wound its way up the stairs and into his bedroom. Intrigued, he dug out a robe from his luggage and headed downstairs. It was eight o’clock California time, meaning four in the afternoon back home. 

In the morning light, the house’s open floor plan and large windows felt expansive. A vaulted ceiling towered over the living room. A beautiful Steinway grand piano occupied the center. Was it always here or did Maggie arrange it? His money was on Maggie. He stopped and played the scrap of melody that had run through his mind on yesterday’s flight. 

“Hello?” a voice called from the kitchen. 

Christ. He just wanted to be alone. The melody vanished as suddenly as it had appeared. A short woman came into the room wearing an apron smudged with flour.

“You must be Harry,” she said, in a lilting accent he couldn’t place. “I’m Jessamyn. Call me Jessie. The sourdough loaf’s ready to come out and I’ve got homemade blackberry jam I put up this summer. I know you’re a baker so let me know that you think. The eggs are cooking now. Would you like breakfast in here? Looks like you’re working. I liked the sound of what you were just playing.”

“Breakfast here is fine,” he said. Despite the need to be alone, he couldn’t help being intrigued by her accent. He loved its musicality, it made him think of warm summer nights and people gathering on front porches. “Your accent’s lovely. Where’s it from?”

“Don’t try to charm me! I’ve been warned.” She laughed and it was a booming sort of sound. “Mississippi born-and bred. Probably don’t meet a lot of us over in the UK?”

“I know Maggie said you need to be here every day but you don’t. If you want to just leave the food and—”

She shook her head. “Sorry. You’re stuck with me. But I’ll leave you alone. And I’ll bring a menu in with your breakfast so you can let me know what you’d prefer.”

Jessie retreated to the kitchen and he cursed Maggie. He was a grown-ass man. He could cook. He could do his own shopping. But he knew the paparazzi would swarm the house if they discovered he was here and he could not deal with them right now. 

And Jessie could cook. He devoured the entire sourdough baguette and washed it down with two cups of tea. Jet lag tugged him down and he knew the only solution was to go outside. After finding his largest pair of sunglasses and an old baseball cap, he walked around the neighborhood. The sun lit up front gardens exploding with pink bougainvillea. It didn’t feel like Christmas was two days away. But then, that had been the point. Nothing was blooming back home. It was winter and Gemma texted this morning that snow covered London. 

Without knowing exactly how it happened, he found himself standing in front of the Santorini blue front door of the Beachwood Café. People crowded around tables inside and out, talking, laughing, couples feeding each other off their plates. Just as he and Louis had done hundreds of times. His gaze snagged on a guy seated by the window. The hair color was the same. He was the right height. What if Louis had come to his senses and decided to meet Harry here? 

“Excuse me? Are you going in?” a girl asked behind him.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, spinning on his heel and heading back to the house.

DAY THREE  
DECEMBER 24TH

Harry slept through the first half of the day, only waking when his mum and Gemma rang for a video chat. He yawned as they opened their presents, complaining that he had spent too much money but it didn’t seem to bother them too much. His mum put on the new Gucci coat and twirled around the room. Gemma ripped out the earrings she was wearing to replace them with the rather large diamond ones from Harry. 

“How’s it going, love?” his mum asked, peering at him. “You look knackered.”

“I was sleeping when you rang, Mum. Stayed up late working.”

“You’re writing then?” Gemma said, taking sips out of a large mug.

“Bit of whiskey and honey to start the day, Gemma?” he said.

“It’s evening here, love. And don’t avoid the question. You’re working on something new?”

The two most important women in his life sat on Gemma’s London couch waiting for an answer. It was no use lying about anything. They would know. 

“Maybe it’s something,” he said finally. He and the piano became intimate friends last night and the possibility existed that he might have two new songs. “Maybe it’s utter shit. In my current mental state, it’s hard to tell, isn’t it?”

They both visibly winced, as if he’d thrown arrows at their chest. This last reunion with Louis had worried them. Harry’s mum loved Louis like her own but believed the recent double losses of his own mother and his sister had, understandably, gutted him, leaving a scared, unpredictable young man in his place. Harry did not disagree with this. Gemma, on the other hand, had little patience left. She ran into Louis a week ago and told him that he ever got within six feet of Harry again she’d rip his bloody face off. At the time, Harry had been furious with her. But now, he wished he’d done it.

“You’re going to be fine, Harry. Do you hear me?” His mum raised her voice. “Do you?”

He did not feel fine. Far from home at Christmas. Living in a stranger’s house. Alone. Alone. Alone. But this part, at least, had been his choice. He couldn’t control what came before. 

“I want you to come home, Harry. I’m worried about you,” she said. 

Gemma leaned over and said something in Mum’s ear before turning back to the camera. “We’re coming there. The day after--”

“God, no, that’s not necessary,” Harry interrupted.

His sister slammed the mug onto the coffee table. “Shut up, Harry. It is fucking necessary. You are Harry fucking Styles and it’s Christmas and you are sitting there alone in—”

“I am not alone.”

His mum lifted an eyebrow.

“Staff doesn’t count, Harry,” Gemma said.

“Well, they count to me. Jessie’s feeding me quite well. And I’m going for walks and--”

His mum and Gemma exchanged looks. “We’ll call you when we work out the details. I’m sure there’s enough room for us there. Wherever you are.”

Harry did not have the energy to argue with Gemma. Or his mum. The thought of having them here was not such a bad one.

Jessie’s voice traveled up the stairs. “Harry? I’ve got brunch laid out whenever you’re ready.”

He signed off the call and drug himself out of bed. “I’ll be down after a shower,” he called, realizing that he hadn’t taken one since he arrived.

Afterward, he felt slightly better and even managed to put on his favorite shirt—the white button down from the Golden video. The kitchen island was covered in freshly baked breads, fruit salad, eggs, and bacon. He hadn’t been hungry but the sight of Jessie’s beautiful food sparked a ravenous feeling. Jessie made him a plate and sipped coffee as he ate.

“And what does a rock star do on Christmas Eve in LA?” she asked.

He lifted his shoulders. “Work, I guess. You’re feeling the spirit today, aren’t you?”

Jessie wore ripped jeans, a reindeer sweatshirt, red vintage Nikes, and a baseball cap that said “Santa’s My Daddy.” 

She smiled. “Forced cheerfulness. Normally, I go home to Mississippi but my girlfriend and I just broke up. Correction. She left me for a twenty-two year old yoga teacher. I couldn’t deal with going home and getting questions about where’s that sweet girl Carmen?” 

Harry wiped his mouth with a napkin, deciding whether another hunk of bread slathered in butter was in order. It was. Without thinking, he said, “I’m on the break-up train to nowhere myself.”

She looked up, tipping her hat at him. “Harry Styles, that may be the only thing you and I have in common but it’s a doozy. Here’s to surviving.” 

They clinked coffee mugs.

“And you really have no plans for today?”

He put a hand to his heart. “Now, you’re making me feel worse.”

“No! Don’t. I have an idea. And you’re under no obligation and it violates the private celebrity chef guidelines—i.e. no socializing—but why don’t we take a hike up to the Hollywood sign?” 

Harry froze. This was something he and Louis had always wanted to do. Almost every trip they’d made plans to go and then Louis would back out at the last minute, worried about paparazzi or fans mobbing them. But Harry wanted to see the sign. This next film project was his biggest role yet. It seemed right that this was the day he should finally see it up close. 

It took an hour to concoct Harry’s disguise. They ransacked all the closets in the house until they found an abandoned box of men’s clothes that smelled decades old. Harry pulled out a pair of polyester pants in a 1970s avocado green and a paisley purple shirt. 

“You look like yourself,” Jessie said, shaking her head. 

Harry looked in the mirror and agreed with her. This was something he would normally wear. 

Jessie dug deeper in the box and extracted an old fisherman’s hat. “Try this.”

He put it on.

“Better,” she said. “I’ve got something in my car that might finish it off.”

She returned with a large backpack. “Aha!” she said after rummaging around in it. “Exactly what we need.”

Apparently what he needed was leopard print sunglasses and a Santa beard. “No one will recognize you,” Jessie said. She slid the glasses over his nose and hooked the beard around his ears. 

He looked like a deranged old man. It was perfect. The clothes reeked of mothballs and dust but Harry didn’t mind if it bought him hours of anonymity.

“Are we going through Griffith Park? I’ve heard about the trails there,” he said, as they headed out the door.

Jessie shook her head. “Too crowded, I think. I’ve mapped it and we can walk up the residential streets until we get to the sign trail. It won’t be as scenic but if you really want to avoid the masses---”

“Fair enough,” he said, adjusting the Santa beard which scratched something awful. 

Along the way they passed a few families out for a stroll. Everyone waved. A few looked strangely at Harry but not because they recognized him. 

“This may be my new favorite outfit,” he said, his breath getting shorter as they climbed higher towards the sign.

A full sun held center stage in a stark blue sky. Jessie shed her sweatshirt, lowering her holiday spirit level to a five. After thirty minutes and two wrong turns, they arrived at the top of the overlook. All of Los Angeles sprawled out below, framed by the Santa Monica mountains. Houses perched improbably on top of hills, a glassy lake curved through a neighborhood, and somewhere past the horizon lay the ocean. He stood as close as he could to the back side of the sign’s letters. They didn’t look that big up close. He faced west, towards the Pacific, his back to the life behind him. 

A faint rustle of excitement stirred. The new film was being directed by a young woman whose first feature won an Academy Award best picture nomination. She told Harry that she had written the role of the mentally unstable younger brother just for him. For him. Harry from Redditch.

“It’s amazing up here, isn’t it?” Jessie said grinning. “Hard to be depressed when you look at it. It’s just full of possibility that view.”

“Agreed,” Harry said. 

“Follow me,” she said, pulling him off to the side and away from the other hikers. “There’s something I do up here. When I need a little release.”

“I’m intrigued,” he said. 

“Are you game?”

He nodded.

“Trust me?”

“Not one of my favorite words at the moment, love,” he said.

She shook her head. “You must commit, Mr. Styles.” She tugged him as close to the cliff’s edge as possible. “Follow me.”

Jessamyn took a massive inhale and it occurred to Harry that perhaps she was insane and intended to jump over the cliff into the canyon, taking him with her. 

In a voice louder than he thought possible for a person of her short stature, Jessamyn screamed, “FUCK YOU, CARMEN!!!!”

It bounced off the mountains, reverberating and surrounding them with glorious furious energy. 

Still holding tightly to her hand, Harry closed his eyes, took a breath, and channeled into three little words every song he’d ever sung at every stadium concert around the world. 

“FUCK YOU, LOUIS!!!!!!!”

The sound startled a hawk out of a nearby oak and it swooped over their heads. 

Both Jessamyn and Harry ducked and collapsed onto the ground laughing. Two older people with a young child in tow looked at them with concern, picking up the child and hurrying in the opposite direction. 

The laughter continued until Harry’s abs ached; it had been ages since he’d done this. Let go. Of him.

Jessamyn stood up first. “Come on, Harry.” 

She held out a hand. He took it. “Love’s a bitch. But we’ll be alright.”

He smiled. “I think I wrote that line.”

“’Course you did.” She stood on tip-toe and kissed him on the cheek, leaving a scented impression of vanilla and yeast. 

DAY FOUR  
DECEMBER 25TH

Harry had insisted that Jessie take Christmas morning off, reassuring her that their hike up to the sign inoculated him against the holiday blues. It wasn’t completely true. When he got up around nine o’clock, the house was dead quiet. 

No sound of his mum puttering in the kitchen or Gemma shaking every present under the tree. Or those years when his stepdad was alive and would be out in the garden insisting that he’d finally figured out how to smoke the turkey right. Which, for the record, he never did.

Jessie left a basket full of bread and muffins in the kitchen and as he was selecting one his phone pinged. A text from Patti. The Beachwood Café owner.

"Merry Christmas Harry! Maggie let me know your chef was off this morning. Will you come down to the café and let me cook you breakfast? We’ve missed you. The café’s closed so it’ll be quiet. See you in a few?"

Maggie deserved to be fired when he got home. He didn’t want to leave the house. He wanted to stay here, have his tea, spend the morning at the piano, and just make it through the fucking day.  
That was not what he told Patti and by 9:30 he was, yet again, wandering down the street toward the café’s blue door. The air was cold and he wished he’d grabbed a scarf. White lights outlined the Beachwood’s windows. It looked empty inside with no sign of Patti either and Harry worried that he’d walked all this way only to face more memories.

The door opened and Patti stepped out with a wave. “Harry! Come in, come in.” She gave him a long hug and whispered in his ear, “I hope you’ll forgive me. It’s Christmas and he was very persuasive.”

Harry pulled back. “What do you mean ‘forgive you’?”

Patti motioned for him to follow her. She led him to a booth in the back, far away from any windows. Harry was six feet away when he realized the booth wasn’t empty. 

Louis Tomlinson occupied it. Waiting.

Harry stopped short. It made no sense. Louis was with Eleanor. In England. He couldn’t think. Whatever this was it could not be happening. 

“I’ll leave you two to talk,” Patti said, disappearing into the kitchen.

Louis stood up. Dark shadows bruised the underside of his eyes. Stubble covered his chin. His shirt was wrinkled. And yet—

“Harry,” Louis said, his voice rough, “please.”

Harry’s mind flashed with an image of screaming at the edge of the canyon yesterday. No. One word that could save him.

“No.” 

Harry wasn’t sure he managed to speak it out loud. “No.” Louder this time. 

The pained expression on Louis’s face forced Harry to turn away and walk out as fast as he could. Outside, he paced the deserted sidewalk. He would not put himself through this again. He could not. He would not. 

And then, hating himself for the soft weakness that made him vulnerable to this man, he walked back in the Beachwood. 

Louis met him at the door. Despite the obvious signs of traveling far, he still smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and hair product. Like Louis in other words and Harry put distance between them. 

“Please sit.” Louis pulled out a chair from a table. “Please? I have a few things to say. It won’t take long. I promise.”

Harry felt ready to leap out of his skin and made a lap around the restaurant’s interior. Less than thirty minutes ago he was calm. Lonely but almost borderline okay. Now-- 

“I will not fucking sit,” he said, choosing instead to stand with a bench between them.

Louis’s hand distractedly went to his back pocket and Harry watched as this man whom he’d loved for a decade struggle to deny the need for a smoke right now. 

“I messed up. Again. I know,” Louis said, rushing his words. “I’m fucked up. But I figured something out.”

Harry crossed his arms as if it might some shield him against whatever came next.

“You’re it, Harry. You’re my---” Louis stopped for a moment, looking down. “You’re my person.”

“Person? Jesus, Louis.” Harry headed for the door again, disgusted. With Louis. With himself for staying to listen.

Louis grabbed Harry’s arm. “Please. Stay. Just a minute more?”

The pressure of Louis’s hand sent its usual shock of desire through Harry and he wondered how it was possible, after all these years, and all this pain that his body continued to act with total disregard for his heart and mind.

And so Harry stayed exactly where he was.

“I’m saying it wrong,” Louis began. “You look so gorgeous standing there and I’m forgetting everything. I meant—” he looked directly at Harry. “You’re it. There’s no one else. You are my love. End of story.”

He reached again for his back pocket.

“Can’t go without a cigarette long enough to speak to me, can you, Louis? Living with Eleanor’s made you a chain smoker?” 

Throwing the name in his was face was petty but Harry felt a small victory.

But what Louis pulled out was not a cigarette. It was a small cube-shaped box. Annoyance flared in Harry. Had Louis come all this way to give him a Christmas present? Ridiculous. He’d just broken up with him and wanted to exchange gifts? 

Louis dropped to one knee. 

“What the bloody hell are you doing, Lou?”

Louis’s hands shook as he opened the box. Inside was a platinum band with their initials intertwined. 

“Harry Edward Styles, I love you. Will you marry me? If you say yes, and I know there are a thousand reasons why you shouldn’t, but if you do, there’s a photographer from Rolling Stone outside waiting to take pictures of us.”

The amount of information overwhelmed Harry. “Did you say there’s a Rolling Stone photographer out there?”

“That’s the part you heard, Harry? And yes, look. The fellow in the blue coat.” 

Louis waved out the window where there was a man in a blue coat holding up a large camera as if offering proof. “I’ve given them an exclusive on our story.”

“Our story?” Harry said.

Louis nodded. “Our love story.”

“You’ve given Rolling Stone an exclusive to write about our relationship?” Not one thing Louis said made sense.

“They want to run it in their February issue. Valentine’s Day and all that.” Louis looked down at his ancient Vans. “Did you hear the other bit? This bit?” He held out the ring box. “I know you could pick a better one but I saw it and it made me think of you and me and—”

“Yes,” Harry said. 

One word that could save him.

“What?” Louis looked confused.

Harry closed the distance between them and took Louis’s face into his hands. When they kissed, it felt different. Before, he always felt Louis pulling away as much as he might be holding him or touching him, a constant looming threat of an ending.

But not now. 

Today was a beginning.


End file.
